Page 115 of Her Soul to Own

I can feel the heat and the extent of it, like his stare is touching places his hands haven’t reached yet. My skin prickles under the attention, and suddenly, I want to ditch the party, the plan, and the war. I just want him. His mouth, his hands, and the fire between us that’s been smoldering way too long.

I forget the party. I forget the plan. I forget my name.

My breath catches, and my legs, traitorous bastards, nearly buckle.

He steps inside and shuts the bedroom door behind him with the kind of care that feels more ominous than if he’d slammed it.

From the bathroom, Zara yells playfully, “Whatever you two are doing, keep it PG, or at least don’t ruin her makeup, Silas!”

He smirks slightly, his eyes still locked on mine. “Not a smudge,” he murmurs, but there’s tension crackling under my skin, which feels unbearably hot.

He closes the space between us like it’s his right, his gaze steady and his voice as low and smooth as silk soaked in gasoline. “Take off your underwear.”

My heart stutters. “Excuse me?”

His tone doesn’t waver. It just drops even deeper. “Take them off. Now.”

I hesitate. Zara calls something from the bathroom, but it’s muffled and distant.

I reach under the gown and slip them off slowly, my fingers trembling. I hold the delicate black lace in my hand, my pulse racing like I’m standing on the edge of something huge and irreversible.

He takes them from me and slips them into his pocket, which feels more intimate than it should. Then, he slips something else into my palm.

It’s lacy, soft, and thicker than my underwear before.

I look up, confused. “What is this?”

His mouth curves into that wicked half-smile. Then, he leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear. “Put it on,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep the remote.”

My body flushes, heat spiraling low in my stomach.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to see my reaction. His gaze is careful, reading me like a map.

“I hope the last time didn’t scare you,” he says. “I understand if you don’t want to do this.”

I swallow hard, and my fingers tighten around the new lace.

“I do,” I whisper. And I mean it. God, I really do mean it.

A different kind of fire licks beneath my skin now as he walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him. I’m still wearing the midnight blue gown, but my steps are slower and heavier with anticipation.

Zara sees the look on my face and raises a brow. “Do I even want to know?”

“Nope,” I say, grabbing the champagne flute and draining it.

We finish getting ready. She is in a slinky silver dress, her hair a halo of polished curls. She looks beautiful and regal. We’re opposites on purpose. A matched set of chaos and charm.

By the time we descend the stairs, Silas is already by the car—a black SUV with tinted windows. Everything about it screams protection and danger.

He opens the back door for us. His eyes meet mine, and I smile in response as we step into the night, into the car, and into whatever the hell comes next.

Silas takes the passenger seat up front.

Zara leans toward me, whispering, “If they want a phoenix…”

I smile, blood-red and lethal. “Then they better be ready for the flames.”

The car glides to a halt outside Miraval Cliffs Resort, which is all sharp edges and curated opulence. The coastal breeze smells like money and eucalyptus, and everything gleams like it’s been polished within an inch of its soul. I can hear ocean waves crashing below the cliffs, a wild soundtrack for the plastic paradise above.

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